Gino At His Piano
by Ritoru Kani
Summary: A simple snapshot of Gino's outlook and overcoming of grief after his return. This is an attempt to write in a romanticism style. Helpful critiques are welcomed!


I came up with this fanfiction while walking from my second class at school. It took me a little over a week to finish this and is currently also posted up in Gino's Harem. If you have any suggestions to make it better, please do tell me! I'd really appreciate it so I can make whatever other fanfiction I write better.

It had been two months since he had been found on his hometown's beach. It was a wondrous miracle he was still alive after the collapse of the tower. Even more miraculous was that he had survived within the sea for months.

Although, now back in his house, he was once again alone. It was the third week he had revelled in the solitude of his enormous mansion. There was nary a servant, a cook, nor guard around the estate. It had seemed all too quiet, too solemn with the absence of his father. The only occasional company Gino had found was the hermit-guard, Bucho. But he found that the guard spoke too little and too seriously for Gino's liking, so he had not found not much comfort in talking to the quiet man. It could be said that he was quite uncomfortable around him.

The same tiresome routine repeated itself over and over in the day for Gino, where he would often lock himself in a single room and lament what he must do for his own future and Gaia's. He sat in the same library where his father once proudly scrutinized his own affairs. Although however proud and glorious his father was, the echo of Johnny K. Gambino did not leave a trace of a golden shine upon the walls, nor the curtains. It did not leave a shine on the desks, or the drawers. Not a hair of glimmering Glory was left upon any page of a book, of a pen, of a single peculiar instrument within the room. The room bore a gloom of absence in Gino's eyes, where the emptiness of the vast walls consumed him in his thoughts, pulling him in deeper and deeper into his grief and misery.

Gino stared out through the vermillion curtains which hung from the towering windows. He thought himself to be trapped in a trance, in an abyss, in which he thought of everything and nothing at once. He agonized over the fact that he, Gino Gambino could not have the Strength his father had, that he, Gino Gambino, was Weak. He would no longer have the luxury of being able to be guided by his father.

The grandfather clock away in the corner seemed to tick away endless eternities within this very day. Tick, tock, tick, ticking and clicking its gears away within the wooden frame to measure the repeating hours of sunlight for the young Gambino. Tick, tick, tick, tock, tock, tock, went the clock away from the day when the sun began to sink into the distant horizon, bursting one final breath of life with spectacular golds and rich reds. It was then when Gino seemed to turn away from his thoughts and looked away into the west, quietly seeing off the fading sun.

A shadow of evening fell upon the extravagant libarary. Whereupon each color grew darker, dimmer, covered in a mourning cloak for the day's departure. The space where Gino occupied seemed to carry a heavier, more morose hue, as if the very chair where he was sitting in did not carry a person, but a complete absence of light where not even the brightest of stars could shed a single ray upon.

Gino made no move to light a lamp.

He became a solid statue in the thick inky evening within his house. He left a foot upon the floor and the other drawn up against him, his back hunched over in overbearing weight and his eyes floorward through what seemed to him in a screen of mist. The bells of the grandfather clock chimed in a lightly dulcet tone, striking of the next hour of the evening, breaking the deep thought Gino had enclosed himself in.

He stood up and took a step, taking one more look through the vermillion curtains and left the empty hall of the library, the heavy rosewood door swung slowly and creaked as Gino set foot beyond the room and looked down the hollow hallway. With a step forward, he started towards his room.

It seemed that the entire mansion in its magnificence seemed to mimic that of the single enclosure in which the young heir had occupied. The lights down the corridors were dim, shining a low, dull sort of would-be flame. The cloudy night air wafted through forgotten windowsills that seemed to have never been closed. Numerous fireplaces burned their last embers in their lonely ashes, offering not even enough light for a single passer-by. He walked alone in the dark.

The pat, pat, pat, of his steps echoed off the scarlet walls and hardwood floors, the mahogany doors and clear glass windows. Winding staircases led him to a high floor, in which there was a single oil lamp that sat upon a table at the end of the hall. It was filled full of oil, decorated so lavishly, but so simple, burning a single low and listless flame.

And with one single move, so swiftly, so quietly, Gino opened and shut the door, confining him within this new room of his, and laid himself down to bed, seeking the shores of sleep that were so far far off.

And so thus he remained oceans away.

The clouds shifted, the winds blew in the dark night sky. And Gino himself tossed in his half-sleep, in which he bouyed in between an imageless nightmare and hazy reality. Where the tremors of yesteryear had wrung chains around his body, chains so weak but he had no Courage to move.

He bore his eyes open and breathed deep.

It was a stronghold, so unnerving, so bewildering. He set his feet on the floor and stood again, but so much more alert now. His hair was tossed, shirt rumpled, he displayed a mild chaos that had not yet completely shaken him.

It was well into the night, but it would not let the day end for the heir of the Gambino Glory.

Outside his room, he closed the door behind him and it uttered a creak like the many doors in the house as he looked down the hallway, where the oil lamp still burned. The flame flicked dimmer, almost out of life, and softly. Down the hall and below the winding staircase did his footsteps pat pat pattered again and again.

He rambled through the house, taking turns left and right throughout the mansion which seemed to have turned into a murky maze up and down the corridors. Every wall seemed the same, every door was an imitation of the last, the distant sound of his footsteps off the walls surrounded him in his sleepy daze. He was trapped, going in circles in his straying path. Neither handle nor doorknob seemed to have interested the young Gambino as a means of escape from this hazy labyrinth-- although one door was left ajar.

Gino peered through it cautiously and hesitated. The door seemed to yawn curiously as it swung ever so softly on its hinges, peculiarly, swiftly without a single noise. And this single open door gave him a way of departure from the strange bleary world Gino found himself sauntering through.

This commodious room, this round chamber, this welcome space held a clear air within it, where the navy night sky laid itself against the flawless, curtainless windows that had replaced nearly every wall. A cold gleaming ocean of white marble laid before Gino, reflecting the twilight from through the glass and the crystalline skylight above. The clouds let a breath of soft shine down to the skylight and encased the single object for which the room seemed to be ultimately created for:

A piano.

A piano. It was that and nothing more, completed with a bench of the same color, set perfectly in the exact center of the glassy enclosure. The thinning cloudy sky relfected in the ebony sheen of the grand piano, glowing far more brilliantly on the glossy surface of the instrument than in the true heavens. Gino was mesmerized.

How long had it been since he had touched the grace of a piano?

In his younger years he had simply picked it up from his mother, who was a brilliant pianist and would often play a song for him to sleep to. It was a fond memory of his childhood to sit at the overwhelming magnitude of a grand piano and idly play with the keys, and years later he learned to play with the beauty of a concert master. But that seemed so long ago, and the last time he even looked at the keys was far before the terror of the walking dead...

Gino lingered within the darkness a little longer, pausing, thinking if he should look at the familiar instrument closer again or if he should simply turn around and go back to sleep. But oh, how so did the ebony sheen call to him once again, the starshine on the surface outreached to him in their fair glimmers. He found that he longed for it too and walked out of the shadowy hood from beyond the skylight.

He walked forth and at once touched the pearly white keys with the utmost intimacy, care, and earnestness. They had a thin film of dust and desolation, whereupon Gino wiped away and paused once again. Should he? Would he? Could he?

He no longer turned away and he sat upon the leather cushion of the piano bench, flipping up his long maroon belt over the seat as a world renowned pianist would with the tails of his tuxedo. And as he always knew how to, he straightened his back, flexed his fingers and ran his hands upon the ivory board to play, hesitating, hesitating simply to find the song in his head to rekindle. Then with the softest breath, he found the right keys, and pressed down upon them, gently listening to the sound he had long ago been torn away from.

And so he began.

A low soft hum emitted from the piano soundboard as his hands seemed to create a wave of music in a drifting sonata to the absent moon. He felt the gentle current of the wafting music ever so hazily pull him in the balmy night, singing, ringing out to the space around him. Pivotal notes echoed against the glass and again as the sound reverberated all around him, embracing him into the tender song that seemed to grow in passion as its creator played.

Yes, it was this feeling once more, this hypnotism that surrounded him and brought him life, a defining joy in his soul as his delicate fingers glided to and fro across the ivory keyboard, ever so gently hitting each note, each pang, each sweet sublime sound. He moved with the low murmuring harmony, swaying as if the ocean had grasped his heart and pulled him out to sea. This music, this full, rich sound, softly lured him deeper into this mesmerizing ardor. He could not stop. He would not stop.

Another breath and a strong _forte_ presented itself in his song, he took another breath and fiercely pressed down, drinking in but a little more taste of this liberation, this...freedom.

But this was not enough. Gino wanted more, more of this...this exhilirating feeling! His hands danced among the lower pitches, striking them and giving them a soul of their own as they carried out into the night. The tones of the piano ebbed beyond the chamber walls and far into the endless mansion, ringing, singing out into the cool night air. He wanted more.

Again, there, again. He wrought his hands down upon the chords and played, bringing down his entire body to feel the force of the resonating strings within the grand instrument. He felt a rush throughout his body, a pull within his heart, and a longing in his soul that commanded his hands to play louder, louder, louder!

He felt unleashed as he pounded upon the ebony and ivory keys of the glistening piano. He poured his soul through his fingers and through the reverberations of this gradeur, this splendor, this magnificence. He lifted his head to the clear skylight as his unbridled song pulled a stronger inertia, lifting and drawing his very existence up through the skylight and far to the zenith above.

But lo! This was not enough!

What Glory he wanted! What Glory he played! What true intensity he had found, a pure, lush intensity that only so many artists would dream of!

His hands seemed to ache, his body starting to tire, but oh, this trifle could not ever stop this ferocity Gino felt inside him! How for so long, he seemed that he had held his breath and only now had he been able to breathe! Of the salvation of this feeling of freedom!

He played and played and played, putting more force, more soul into this very song. The thrill! He had broken loose the chains of his sorrow to-night and thrust every fiber of his being through this otherworldly instrument to make the most bewitching, bewildering music he had ever felt.

This music, this sound, this was him! For so long he wrapped himself away, closing himself to the world and how only now could he feel unbound!

Gino played and played, his head upturned and he sent his untainted, pure earthly music above, whereupon it had fled past the air, the clouds, the sky, to touch the glistening empyrean far, far above!

How then did the clouds finally flee and the silvery shine of the full moon glowed upon him, Gino Gambino! How then did his music enter upon the coveted realm of the heavens did a feeling so powerful, so true held within his heart that he seemed to emit a fiery incandescence about him that it was as if to give him the very reigns of the world!

And then he paused. He paused!

It stopped.

He sighed, listening to the the sound ringing off the walls in a dull _fermata_. 

He was frozen, stiff, at his piano bench as the persistent echo floated in the air. It was still.

And in a short muse, he glided his hands to a higher note and continued as if he had never stopped.

It would ring, ring, ring, about the rounded chamber, glowing in the moonlight as Gino's gentle hands brought forth a sweet, sweet euphony. It would sing, sing, sing in the night as his hands would enchant the glittering stars that had flickered in the dark air so brightly.

Towards the stars that above him through the glass window oversprinkled as they twinkled, twinkled, twinkled in time with the silvery, silvery song that intertwined itself around the jewels by the round, round moon.

He fluttered his hands and the plinking of the keys glowed a such of ring that chimed so delicately, so charmingly in its clarity in the soft glow of the twilight's beam. It was a mystic sound so scintillating and airy. A smooth flittering rainfall drizzled upon the white marble floor as it danced simply for the ears of its lone creator, who so lovingly breathed it life.

It was a simple hum, a simple whirling tune that edged softly and quietly. Gino wafted his song once more and moved his hands in a sweet quell of the sprinkling rhythm and pace. He swept upon the keyboard in a final ebb and put his triumph to a slow and resonating sleep in the crystal sky of night. He took a heavy breath and paused in the final note of his song, drinking in the echoing pangs off the wall.

He exhaled another breath and tilted his head down and rested his forehead against the ebony piano.

He felt refreshed. Clean, free and unburdened.

As the last note faded to rest he drank in the silence of the empty house, in the pure solitude in which he could for once, in what seemed like the first time, he could think clearly and without weight in his heart. His hands still rested upon the ivory keys as he seemed to be sitting still in his mind, his thoughts drifting elsewhere to somewhere where he didn't even know.

And far to the sky, the dark horizon, the warm, warm glows of the morning light started to burst through, regaining its strength of the starting day and bidding farewell to the cool night air. Brilliant reds and golds penetrated the wispy clouds in the fading darkness and the musician lifted his head.

Reflection in his bordeaux eyes emitted a shine equivilent to the morning sun, and this time, Gino greeted the day. He smiled and moved himself from the black leather cushion and stretched his legs, flexed his fingers and moved his neck. It had been a long night, a long, Glorious night, and he felt now, he could really rest.

He walked over the white marble floor and through the silent wooden door, down the halls and corridors through which every hazy obstacle had been cleared and definite, and up towards the winding stairs which he felt he could walk for days on. He reached the high room of his mansion and looked down the hall to where the oil lamp had glowed.

Although the sun was rising, the sky glowing, and the light shining, this oil lamp, this little oil lamp, of which it was so beautifully and so simply decorated, filled to the brim, burned an intense blaze which lit the hall so much more brightly than the sun could.

Gino smiled at the little lamp and slid through the doorframe, without a squeak, a creak, or a sound, and therein, he found rest.

The night had changed him, made him Stronger. He could find no more sorrow to mourn for his father, his faded glory. He could no longer find the grief to lament his own lost way because of his father's absence. He had finally realized his own Glory. His own control. He was truly his father's son, but he is not to cry in the darkness of what was once his father's. He had opprotunities ahead of him, decisions to make and a way of life to develop in his own fashion. He was not his father and it was not his place to live up to his father. 

He was Gino.

And his life from now would be his own to control. His hands are his own and only they alone can create what only he, Gino Gambino could create and no one else.

It was time to turn a new page on which the morning sun would shine upon. 

The end.


End file.
